


Soft Boot (Part 3)

by mother_finch



Series: Soft Boot [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: Sameen Shaw and Harold Finch grow closer to ending their nearly two year search for Root and John Reese; however, the captive duo are ready to take matters into their own hands. Amidst the chaos that ensues, Root makes a single phone call.





	Soft Boot (Part 3)

**[Monitoring Primary Asset...**

**> Radio City Apartment Complex, New York, NY**

**> > 49th St. Police Surveillance**

**> >> 07:15, 12/20/2017**

**...Security Threats Detected]**

"Hey, Sweetie," Root coos in Shaw's ear, the soft crackle of sleep not present in her voice. Shaw stirs, eyes remaining shut.  _She must've been awake for awhile_ , Shaw thinks to herself groggily. "Sameen..."

"What are you doing up?" Shaw asks, rolling her neck. Stretching her arms.

"I'm always up."

Shaw raises a brow, but doesn't respond. The early morning sun spills into her room, bathing her face in warmth, and the blankets beckon for her to stay in bed.  _And why not?_  she wonders. She steadies her breath, mimicking sleep.

"You need to wake up," Root persists, and Shaw can't maintain the straight face.

"I'm sleeping," she responds. She can imagine Root’s growing irritation.  _She's ready to be out and about, probably has been since she went to bed, and here I am ruining her plans._

"I can see you smiling," Root says, some of the play gone. "You're not asleep."

"What's your rush?" Shaw asks. She tries to pull back memories of last night.  _Did they have something to do this morning?_  She remembers the bar, but not much else. Not coming home. Not getting in bed. She waits for Root's impatience to mount. Waits for Root to grab her shoulder, roll her over and pry her eyes open if she has to. It doesn't come.

"I detect a threat in the area. We have to go."

_Detect a threat?_  Shaw repeats, brow furrowing microscopically. A witty remark rises in her throat, then catches on her tongue.

_'You been talking to the Machine too much?'_ Shaw nearly asks, opening her eyes. She rolls over.  _'You're starting to sound just like Her.'_

She's alone.

"A little faster, please," the Machine asks, and Shaw brings her hand to her ear, feeling the earwig wedged inside. Heat rises on her cheeks as she sits up, gaze darting to the window. She sees the security camera secured to the electric pole outside her building. She'd forgotten to close the blinds when she got home last night.

Eyes narrowing and jaw locking into an unreadable countenance, she slides from bed, closing the blinds sharply.

"I know spying on everyone is your thing, but I'd like to wake up just one morning without being watched," Shaw grumbles, the previous play gone from her voice. Looking down at herself, she sees she's wearing the same clothes from the day before. Her shirt has a stain that reeks of stale beer. Rolling her eyes, she peels it off, finding something else to wear.

"I like seeing you that way in the mornings."

"No need to be creepy about it."

"Some mornings, there's something different about you."

"Oh yeah?" she shoots back with a bitter laugh, throwing on a t-shirt and calling it a day. She rummages through her drawer for jeans. "You seeing something different today?"

"I think it's what Root always saw."

Shaw stops, fingers tightening around the fabric of her pants. Her breath barely leaves her lungs.

"It's nice to see what she sees."

"Well, don't flatter yourself," Shaw grumbles, throwing the pants on with irritation. "I had a lot to drink last night."

"I know."

"Of course you know," Shaw scoffs. She finishes getting ready, and another thought crosses her mind.

"What are you going to do when Root's back?"

"What I always do."

"I mean, your voice. This, this talking thing."

"Root is the Analog Interface. She was my voice before this. I don't see why she wouldn't be again."

Shaw nods, taking it in. She packs her weapons into a duffel bag, adding some clothes to the mix on second thought.

"I guess our chats will be done?"

"You say that like you'll miss hearing from me."

Shaw laughs.

"Definitely not," she responds, slinging the bag over her shoulder and starting out of the apartment. She grabs the Russian medallion she left hanging on the coatrack and tosses it in her bag.

"Don't worry, Sam, we'll keep in touch."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**{Evaluating Simulation Options...**

**... Running Simulation #6832...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> > Eastwood, Syracuse, NY**

**> >> February 25, 2017, 16:18 EST**

**... Information Status: In Progress}**

Root stands at the center of a room she's never seen in person but knows all too well. Shaw strapped to a chair on the right; Lambert and his computer on the left; gun in hand. It's always one bullet. Every time she tried to conserve the shots-- even picking up another operative's gun on the way in-- always one bullet left in the clip.

John's dead. It's not the first time, and unless this isn't a simulation, it won't be the last. She tries each time to save him. To keep him out of harm's way, but something always gets him. It's Russian Roulette, but the game is fixed. It's come to the point where she's seen death on his face so many times that there is no longer a pain it, for the numbness never has a chance to go away.

Part of her swears it's a simulation--  _it's always a simulation_ \-- but seeing Shaw right in front of her every time, it feels all too real.  _Even if it isn't_ , Root thinks,  _it's a chance to see her_. To hear her tell Root that it's going to be okay. Closing her eyes, she can almost believe Shaw's words.  _Everything's going to be okay._

"Everything's going to be okay," Shaw says softly, and Root opens her eyes. The illusion bursts.  _Nothing's okay._

"No, it's not."

"Why not?" Shaw's eyes reveal nothing. Not what she's thinking, or feeling. Root's walls begin to crumble.

"They've been putting me in simulations. Forcing me to choose--" she gestures between Shaw and the computer with the gun-- "but I can never choose." Root looks down at the weapon in her hand, feeling the smooth metal. Icy to the touch.  _If it feels this real, it has to be real, right?_  "If I save you, it means I kill the Machine. But as soon as She's dead, they'll kill you anyway,  and I can't lose Her and you."

Silence sits between them. Gears turn in Shaw's eyes, brow creasing the slightest bit.

"And if you kill me?"

"I'll play this simulation until the day I die before I let it come to that."

"This isn't a simulation, Root." Shaw's sincerity is overwhelming, like a bottle of perfume doused on the carpet. It engulfs Root, intoxicates her. She wants to believe Shaw, but she knows she can't. _Not yet._

"Funny," Root replies, tilting her head. Her eyes flicker between Shaw and the gun. "I've heard that same line 6,831 times, and it hasn't been true yet."

"I can prove it to you."

Root smiles.

"I'm counting on it." Root prepares the mental slide show of questions, feeding them through one by one. "The first time we met... what did I greet you with?"

" _Besides_  the taser?" Shaw chuckles. "An iron."

"Do you remember what my alias was?"

Shaw stares at her a moment, revealing nothing. Then, the ghost of a smile.

"Veronica Sinclair."

A small grin pokes between Root's lips. Even if Shaw isn't here, even if this isn't real, entering the memories for a small while is the only comfort she has anymore. It's worth every second.

"Where'd you shoot me when our little bunch first found me with Harold?"

"Shoulder."

"Who vouched for me when I was stuck in the library?"

"Me," Shaw answers, dark humor swirling in her eyes. "Shouldn't have. Let you loose, and look where we are now."

Root chuckles. She catches herself falling into the trap yet again, and quickly pulls herself back out. Sometimes, she just wants to let herself go entirely.

"What was our first pit stop after we stole the jet?"

"Miami," Shaw answers, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "Believe me yet?"

"Almost." Root's voice cracks, heat brimming her eyes.  _You always do this,_  she warns.  _You always get a little too hopeful a little too soon_. "You're only the second one to get this far."

"I don't think we really have much more time for games."

"Good thing I only have one move left." Clearing her throat, Root runs the back of her wrist over her eyes, needing them to remain dry.  _Keep it together. Just keep it together._

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Do you remember what we talked about... in the stock exchange?" She presses her lips together, flashes of that day bursting in her mind. Losing her then, for months on end, only to be taken here after getting her back. "Before they took you?"

Shaw gives her a curious look.

"Of course I remember."

Root runs her fingernails along the length of the handgun. She catches Lambert's reflection along the barrel-- she'd nearly forgotten he was here.

"When we were looking for you, I was able to send you a message.  _That_ message. It seemed like the only thing we knew Samaritan couldn't touch." She brushes her hair behind her ear. The skin where the doctor placed a chip under skin is smooth now, the incision healed entirely.  _How long has it been?_

"I've been in and out of so many simulations like this one, I don't know what to believe anymore. But I believe  _that_. And if you understand what I'm referring to, then I know this is it-- this is real."

Shaw's eyes are steady on Root's, and she leans forward in her chair.

"I remember. I remember it." She grips the armrests tight. "This is real. You and me, right now, are  _real_."

Root chuckles, sadness welling in her eyes.

"Wrong answer."

_Bang!_

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**{System patch successful...**

**... Initiating recovery procedure...**

**> All units scheduled to come online**

**> > Accessing NSA pathways**

**> >> Accessing Security Camera networks**

**... Closed Circuit Systems Online...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> > Eastwood, Syracuse, NY**

**> >> March 24, 2018, 02:19 EST**

**... Interrogation in Process}**

John comes to with fog in his mind, eyes fighting to pull open and dry tongue smacking against his cracked lips. The hood is ripped from his head, white light bathing him, and he sinks into his chair.  _Not this again_ , he mutters to himself. He hadn't seen Root in what felt like centuries. Still this room, but never her. Lambert said she was busy.  _Did busy mean he hit her one too many times? Did she not make it through the interrogations?_

He can't think of any other reason as to why they would start torturing him instead. Mentally, more than anything. Snippets of Jessica, of Joss, of everyone he's lost. Of everyone he couldn't save.  _How long before they add Root to the footage?_  Will they tell him, or just slip it in at the end and watch him fall apart?

No one's coming for him. He internalized that a long time ago. There's a certain comfort he's always found in being alone, and it returns to him piece by piece. He'd allowed himself to grow soft, attached to the  time spent with Finch and the rest of their criminal death squad. It weakened him. Made his time in captivity harder. But he's finding the rhythm again, and knows it's only a matter of time before Lambert and his goons catch on.  _It won't be long after that before they kill me too._

Shifting in his seat, his limbs groan from lack of use. He did what he could at first-- practicing punches and kicks in his cell. Sit ups and push ups and running in place. After long enough, it seemed useless. His time spent exercising lessened. Instead, he opts for lying in the sorry excuse of a cot tucked in the corner of the dark room, or just staring into the darkness. He listens for something, anything, but every prayer he's spoken into the darkness never returns to him with an answer. He wonders when he'll finally stop asking.

Lambert enters, pushing Root alongside him, and John's blood freezes in his veins.  _She's alive._  The first thought enters with relief. The rest with ice. He sees the way she walks alongside Lambert. He barely keeps his hand on her arm, and yet she keeps alongside him, save for a few stumbles.  _She's not in a wheelchair, which means she's most likely not drugged for the trip._  His breath catches.  _How far gone does she have to be for them to trust her with the layout of the building?_

Lambert releases her arm, and she sits in the chair. Places her arms on the arm rests. He straps her in, no fuss necessary. John can only watch, lips parting in silent terror, eyes like mirrors reflecting the worms of worry eating away at his stomach.

"You could learn at thing or two from her," Lambert tells John. He plays with the straps a moment, then unbuckles them. He crouches before her, looking her over, with one hand cupped around her cheek through the black hood.

"I'll cut you a deal, Sweetheart," he coos, sticky sweet tone enough to make John's blood boil. "I leave these off-- give those wrists a rest-- and you give me your word you'll sit still?"

After a moment, she nods. He stands, pulling the hood from her face. John's eyes immediately encase her, going over every minute detail.

She could have aged a century. Her hair is flat and wiry, eyes deep-set and trimmed in shadow. Her cheeks are gaunt, the lively color of her skin drained entirely. She lifts her gaze to John, but she seems to only look right through him. The flicker of life he'd always known in her eyes, even at her worst, is extinguished.

"I know it's been a while since the two of you have had a chance to chat," Lambert says, clasping his hands and standing behind Root's chair. "But you're not here to catch up."

"What a shame," John replies. "I have so much to tell her about my riveting time in solitary."

"I'm sure you do," he responds, a hint of annoyance surfacing in his otherwise chipper tone. "It'll have to wait; I have some good news."

Bringing his hand out before him, he swings it wide to the right, directing their attention to the far wall. The lights near it dim, and a projector whirs to life. Soon, a square of bright white illuminates the wall, and a red triangle blinks at its center. John swallows hard, dread climbing from the pit of his stomach and clawing at his throat.  _It can't be, we destroyed--_

**|Hello Root|**  types out just above the red triangle, resting on a black line like a scale.  _If this is their attempts at justice, they're scales are skewed_ , John thinks to himself, ready to spit. Root's name backspaces, and a new name appears.  **|Hello Reese|**

Everything disappears other than that red triangle.

"Show us your current network status," Lambert commands.

**|Current Network Status|**  it types back. The screen dissolves, replaced with red branches connecting to servers across a map of America. Each line leads to a dot that pings. The text returns.  **|Current Network Status: Online|**

Everything disappears. The red triangle blinks, taunting John from his place in the room. It's a front row seat to the show he never wanted to see again.

"Show me..." Lambert thinks. "Fifth Avenue, New York City."

Organized lines of security cameras run across the screen, connected by black labels, flittering through faster than John can focus. Sixteen camera feeds arrange themselves along the screen, showing Fifth Avenue from different angles. After a few moments, one of the tiles changes to a different camera. A second square does the same. A third. People walking along the street begin to populate with information, their faces ensnared by Samaritan's irrelevant markers. John closes his eyes, disgusted.  _After all of this, after all that was sacrificed and lost, Samaritan can just hop back online?_

"It's been a nearly two year process," Lambert tells them as the screen returns to white. "Your friend, Harold, made an excellent virus. Almost wiped us out. Good thing Samaritan learns from your mistakes."

"Why are we still here?" John spits, stomach in knots. Lambert raises a brow. "Here, at this Godforsaken facility, if you have your little computer program running again?"

"Bringing Samaritan back from the dead was never our main concern," Lambert responds. "It's taking out the competition. And the two of you," he adds, hands sliding down to Root's shoulders, "are doing an excellent job of helping us with that."

There's a blur of motion, and Root's fingers curl around Lambert's wrists. She tucks her body to her knees, throwing Lambert over the chair and onto the floor between them. She stands, and John sees the fire reignite in her face, but there's something that burns far harsher than he's ever seen. Stepping over Lambert, she kicks the gun out of his hand, dropping to the ground and punching him in the face.  _Once, twice_... over and over, until the blood on her knuckles and the blood from his face are indistinguishable. He sputters, coughs, fingernails raking along her left arm as she holds him by the throat. Blood begins oozing from the scratch marks, but she doesn't even acknowledge it, hitting him over and over and over.

"Root," John snaps at last, jarring Root from her trance as she winds back for another swing. "Untie me." She doesn't move at first, eyes still hard on Lambert. He chokes heavily, nose gushing blood and mouth cherry red. Standing over him, she gives him a swift kick to the head, and his body slackens.

Coming to John, she unfastens his restraints quickly, guards approaching from just outside the room. John leaps from his chair, rolling across the floor as bullets spit through the air. Grabbing Lambert's gun, he begins returning fire, using the chair for cover.

"How are we getting out of here?" John asks as Root rolls Lambert over. Rummaging through his pockets, she grabs his keycard and cell phone. John reaches out his hand, grabbing her by the forearm and tugging her behind him as bullets ricochet off the metal chair.

"Once we pass these guards, left in the main hall, third door on the right should take us to..."

"Take us to what? Root."

"We can't go that way. We have to find another door."

"What's in that room."

She doesn't answer.

"Dammit, Root, what's in that room that's worse than us dying here?"

"Us dying  _there_." Her voice is so soft, so haunted, he barely hears it past the fire fight. Turning to her, he does a double take.

"We're not going to die there."

"I've had over ten thousand simulations... we never make it out of any of them."

"Well, this isn't a simulation, so maybe our odds are a little better." He throws his body over her, bullet grazing his head as he drops to the ground. His ear rings, but he tries to push it away-- to regain his senses.

"Everyone says it's not a simulation," she mutters, then shakes her head. "What other options do we have, right?" The second to last guard drops as John's gun runs out. The last man standing begins to reload. John steps out from behind the chair, eyes black and jaw set as he makes a direct line for him. The man fumbles with his weapon, hands shaking as he puts in a new clip.

Aims.

John smacks his hand to the side, snapping his wrist in a single movement, and throws his elbow into the man's back. He hears the crunch of bone as the man cries out. Stepping down on his leg, John brings the man to his knees, holding the gun to the back of his head.

"Quickest route outta here. I'm only asking once."

"I'm not telling you anyth--"

_Bang!_

Reese stashes the weapon in his waistband, bending down and grabbing another. He tosses one to Root, who catches it. He grabs another one for her, but she doesn't take it. Instead, she dials 6-1-1 into the cell, putting it to her ear.

"Telephone systems directory assistance," an automated voice intones. John looks to her, unsure what she's doing or why.  _Do we have time for this?_ Raising a brow, Root holds her gun steady, starting into the hall. John follows, keeping to her right side, eyes searching about wildly.  _We're getting out of here_ , he tells himself.  _One way or another._

"This is Root," she says into the phone. "And I need a long overdue favor from you."

John hears the phone crackle, automated voice disappearing. The line rings. Root's eyes slide to John's, hope setting into place. Taking down another operative and pushing through the third door on the right, John can't help but feel the hope spread to him like a contagion.

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Scan for Analog Interface in Progress...**

**> 2016**

**> > 3 result yield**

**> 2017**

**> > 0 result yield**

**... Running probability of success ...**

**... Monitoring Assets ...**

**> Kaborthy Cinema, Manhattan**

**> > Admin remote security feeds**

**> > 02:27, 3/24/2018]**

Shaw hangs close to Harold, leaning onto his desk with one hand, face inches from his. She's never been one for the technical side of this job, but she doesn't want to miss a thing.

Harold's typing slows, then tapers off completely.

"Ms. Shaw, if I may say so, your presence is somewhat... distracting."

Shaw shoots him a glare, but slides away none the less. Still, she hovers, keeping the strings of code and pdf files within reading distance.

"Do you have anything?"

"Nothing new since the last time you asked."

"You didn't tell me what you had the last time I asked." Her anger flares, hands balling into fists. "You haven't told me much of anything."

"For good reason."

"You have no good reason to keep  _any_  of this from me."

"Considering your reaction to the video of Ms. Groves in the morgue, I think I have very  _good_  reason."

Shaw presses her lips together tight, rage soaring in her eyes. She doesn't want to agree with him, but he has a point. After seeing the CSIs check Root's pulse and cart her out of the morgue, Shaw's first instinct was to find that M.E. and make her spill what she knew, by any means necessary.

What wound up being necessary was using the examiner's own tools against her, then slowly filling blood bag after blood bag, demanding to know how much blood she had to let Root lose to get her that pale. That lifeless.  _'I guess we'll find that out together,'_ Shaw told her, but Shaw's lead over Harold was spent. She didn't want to listen to him--  _didn't have to_ \-- but in the end, the M.E. didn't know anything past an easy ten grand. The examiner nearly bled out in that room. Shaw didn't care.

"I'm compiling a list of receipts that coincide with where the security tapes leave off. Gas stations, toll roads... I'm trying to pinpoint the most likely way they traveled, but so far, the best I can get is a ballpark range near Syracuse."  
  
"Then what are we doing here?"

"Before you galavant off again and nearly kill someone else, I think you're underestimating how large of an area this covers.  _If_  it’s accurate."

"It’s accurate."

"Even if it  _was_ ," he continues, ignoring her, "blindly searching for our enemies will let them spot us long before we ever see them."

Shaw rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. She can't sit still. Doesn't know how. For years she'd worked with the CIA, and gathering intel was something she's accustomed to. Weeks spent listening in and extracting just the right data to perform a flawless takedown. But when it comes to the people she cares about, the last thing she wants to do is wait. _It doesn't have be done flawlessly, as long as it's done._

"Just give me a bit more time," Harold sighs, feeling the impatience radiating from Shaw like the heat of the summer sun. "I'm looking into shell corporations that have bought buildings in the last two years. I'll find something."

Shaw opens her mouth to bark back a snarky retort, but the words fall from her lips without a sound as her phone trills to life. Turning from Harold with a last glance at his computer screens, she pulls out her phone. She raises a brow.

"Connected call?" she mutters aloud, swiping the answer button. She brings it to her ear.  _Connected from where?_

"Hello?"

"Shaw?" Root's voice. Curiously, as if The Machine hadn't expected Shaw to answer.  _If She called me, why wouldn't She expect an answer?_  Shaw did have to admit, it's been awhile-- far longer than she's used to-- since the Machine's last call. She didn't realize she would actually miss talking to Her. Even still, she refuses to show it.

"Listen, if you've got another number, I'm a little busy."

"Shaw? Hello? Can you hear me?"

Shaw looks down at her phone, beginning to walk further away from Harold.  _The reception was fine yesterday._

"Yeah, I can hear you. Is something wrong on your end? It's all... staticky." Mingled in with the static are a series of sharp pops.  _Gunfire_? Shaw thinks to herself. "Where the hell did you get these recordings from?"

"Recordings? Sam, I don't where we are, or what you mean, but I'm not recording anything."

Shaw stops, mid-stride. In the background, another gun goes off, and what sounds like John's voice calling for her to keep up. Her breath catches in her lungs.

"Root?"

It's a single syllable, but it might just be the hardest thing Shaw's ever had to say. It leaves her, less than a whisper, and she tries again.

"Root?"

"Yeah, yeah it's me. Can you hear me?"

"Holy..." Something clicks in the back of Shaw's mind, and in an instant she returns to full speed. Turning herself violently, she barrels back to Harold's desk, snapping at him and pointing to her phone. She puts it on speaker.

"Yeah, I can hear you. I can hear you. Where are you? Is John with you?"

"I don't know where. Some Samaritan building." Static and gunfire. "John's here."

Harold's eyes widen, he and Shaw sharing a look. His fingers fly across the keys, starting a trace.

"Root, we're coming for you, okay? Just stay on the line."

"You can't come here." In the background, John yells.

"What do you mean she can't come here?" he demands. "We need help."

"We're coming. We're going to be there as soon as we can."

"Shaw, I can't let you--"

"You can't make me stay here," Shaw interrupts. Her words are biting, but the tone isn't directed at Root. It's directed at the situation-- the unknown slipping away of seconds, unsure how long they have, or how to help. "Are you okay? What did they do to you?"

Static. Endless static. Shaw wonders if Root dropped the phone. Or worse.

"Is the call dead?" Shaw barks, and Harold shakes his head.

"It's still tracing, the phone must be on."

"Root? Root. Are you okay?"

"For now."

"What 's happening? What are they doing to you?"

Shouting erupts from all sides, footsteps closing in.

"It's good to hear your voice again, Sweetie."

Silence.

Shaw's phone goes dark as the call disconnects. She can't help but stare at it a minute. Then two.

The shock dissolves into fury like sodium into hydrochloric acid, letting off a series of white hot sparks through her system. Her fingers dig into the screen as she tightens her grip on the cell, half a mind to throw it against the wall. Just before she decides to, she thinks better of it.

_If Root called me on it once,_  Shaw thinks,  _she might call me on it again_. She doesn't bother to think of Root's chilling last words, and how final they sounded leaving her mouth. As if she were never going to hear Shaw's voice again.  _It's not going to be like that_ , Shaw tells herself, believing it with every fiber of her being.  _It's not going to--_

The phone is ripped from her hand as Harold stands. Throwing it to the ground, the screen shatters. He steps on it, grinding in his heel as the circuitry crumbles beneath him. A vengeance hotter than Hell seizes her, and she grabs him by the collar, slamming him into the wall adjacent his desk. She presses her knuckles into the soft of his throat, and his hands incase hers, eyes shut tight. She pushes harder.

"Why would you do that," she demands with a snarl. From behind her, Bear scrambles to his feet, a low whine in his throat. She digs her knuckles in, feeling his throat contort as he struggles for air. "That was our only connection to Root and John."

"There's no--" he gasps-- "no way Root-- could have--" gasp--"known--" cough-- "that number."

Shaw loosens her hold, and he sucks in a large breath, eyes shooting open. They land on hers.

"If anything... the Machine registered her voice... patched her through."

"Still," Shaw spits, wanting nothing more than to shove him into the wall again. She refrains, body beginning to tremble. "She can't get back in touch with us if we don't have a  _phone_."

Harold's computer beeps, and his eyes slide to the screen.

"The trace just finished," he says. "It's the closest thing we'll get to a destination." Wanting to see where the facility is, Shaw releases Harold with a final, glowering glare. He reaches for his throat immediately, massaging it with his right hand a putting a flash drive in his computer with the left. Instantly, a box pops up at the center of the screen.

**> System Failure Detected**

Shaw grabs the edge of the monitor, scanning the map with a red radius inside of Syracuse. The location given is only Eastwood. The screen goes black. Then glitches. The words warp on screen, all of Harold's previous tabs scattering and disappearing.

**> System Compromised**

**> >Initiating Protocol**

Without bothering to grab his laptop, Harold calls Bear forward, attaching his leash. Grabbing Shaw by the arm, he pulls her away from the computers and toward the exit doors.

"We need to leave."

"Why?"

Harold gives her a look, worry in his eyes that she hasn't seen for some time. They're haunted, like his worst nightmares have been brought back from the dead.

"If Samaritan is still operating, that means Samaritan is still  _active_. And if we could find  _them_ , then they can find  _us_."

Pushing open the dilapidated doors, Harold, Shaw, and Bear emerge into the frigid winter night. The door swings behind them, smacking against its unhinged latch as the wind whips it to and fro. Already, sirens bellow in the distance, undoubtedly coming for them.

"Is this war really happening all over again?" Shaw asks. Harold ducks his head against the cold, pulling out a set of keys to a car on the opposite side of the road. Unlocking it with the remote, he hands them to her.

"I'm starting to believe it never ended."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Systems Compromised...**

**...Initiating crucial information redaction...**

**...Following license plate -REDACTED-...**

**> Traffic Cameras**

**> > -REDACTED- , NY**

**> >> Approximately 08:30, 3/24/2018**

**... Assets in vehicle: -REDACTED- , -REDACTED-]**

Shaw sits in the passenger side of the third car of their trip, eyes drifting out the window. It's her turn to rest, but she can't manage sleep. Instead, she traces her fingertips in lazy circles along the cold glass, watching her breath fog the window. Bear lays in the back seat, his chin resting on the center console. Even he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, but sleep doesn't seem to come to him either.

The drive to Syracuse would have been no more than four and a half hours on a regular instance; however, coupled with switching cars and taking every possible back road to avoid security cameras, the trip is racking up major hours, and they aren't even half way to Eastwood.

"If you need something to eat," Harold says, stealing a glance her way, "there should be some left over takeout on the floor behind your seat."

"Don't have much of an appetite," she responds, reaching for the phone she'd bought on the corner while Harold was hot wiring their second vehicle of the day. Flipping it open, she dials Fusco.

"NYPD Detective Fusco. Who's calling?"

"Just your friendly neighborhood sociopath."

"Where have you been?" he asks, voice hushing. A door closes behind him, the sounds of the precinct falling away. "I've been calling you."

"No one likes you when you're clingy."

"Try worried. Glasses tells me you tried to kill a lady, and all of a sudden you don't answer your phone calls."

"Phone was busted."

"For two weeks?"

"No, just last night. I was ignoring the rest of your calls."

He groans, and the hint of a smile tugs at her lips.

"So where are you anyway?"

"On our way to Syracuse. Heard it's beautiful this time of year."

"Syracuse?" he echoes. "Is that where John and Root are?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does," he retorts. "If that's where they are, then I'm coming too."

"Seems a little ways out of your jurisdiction, Lionel."

"This isn't about jurisdiction," he says. There's a pause. "This is about family."

Shaw's eyes scan the landscape that unfolds around them, trees brimming with fresh snow and endless fields covered in white. She sighs.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to ride along on this one."

"Why not?" He shifts on the other end of the line, then clucks his tongue. "Before John, I was just a dirty cop trying not to get my ass busted by the even dirtier cops around me. I always thought when I died, that would be the only thing I'd be remembered by." He takes another pause. "Because of him-- because of you guys-- I know when I die, I'll die a good man. All of you have saved me in more way than one, and I'm gonna do whatever I can to repay the favor."

Shaw closes her eyes, taking her hand away from the window and rubbing her temple.

"Are you done with the dramatics, or should I wait for you to shed a tear or two?"

"I'm serious, Shaw. I'm not accepting the bench on this one."

She says nothing, not wanting to be responsible for signing off on his death wish, but knowing the feeling he has. Needing to find them. To be there to see them first hand. She can't stop thinking about Root. She hears her voice in every second of silence. The way her words seemed broken, even past the fight she clearly had to put up to get access to the phone. Something was different, hollowed out, and the idea that Root won't be coming home whole leaves dread crawling across her skin.  _I've known she was out there for over a year,_ Shaw keeps telling herself, beating it deep into her soul.  _For over a year, and I still haven't gotten her back._

"There's really no talking you down, huh?" she asks.

"Not a chance. And, besides," he adds, "you and Glasses are gonna need all the help you can get. Last time I checked, you two don’t come with a cavalry."

"We're working on it," Shaw assures him. _This isn't the only call I have to make._

"So it's settled. When should I come up?"

"I'll call you when we're ready. There's no use for you to alter your routine and take an impromptu trip up here. It'll raise too many red flags."

"I thought these guys didn't know who I was?"

"They don't, but they're smart enough to connect a few dots. I'll be in touch."

Hanging up, she closes the phone, holding it to her chest. Root's words swirl around her, haunting her perhaps more than her alleged death.  _She's been with them so long, is she even truly alive anymore?_

_She has to be,_  Shaw insists, trying with all her might to force the dark thoughts away. They still flood in.

"What am I hearing about a cavalry?" Harold asks, and Shaw angles her head against the glass to look at him.

"There's another group, some of our old numbers, that work with the Machine like we did."

"And you know of them because...?"

Shaw turns her gaze back to the window. Suddenly, she feels claustrophobic.

"The Machine offered for me to join them. When She first came back online."

"Did you?"

"I prefer to work alone."

They're silent a moment, and Harold turns onto a dirt road, passing by scattered houses and horses grazing in enclosures. He peers over at her, taking in the way she slumps into her chair, not focusing on anything in particular.

"How long has it been?" he asks. She furrows her brow.

"The drive? About six hours all together."

"No, I mean, since the Machine stopped talking to you."

"Who says She has?"

Harold purses his lips, thinking of how best to word his thoughts.

"There was a time when the Machine ceased communications with Ms. Groves." Shaw turns her attention to him, eyes searching his face. "She didn't tell anyone, but I could see it in the way she held herself. It was different."

He looks to her again, hoping for some form of reaction. She gives him nothing.

"It's a strange thing, I'm sure, talking to a god. One that you know, with complete certainty, hears your prayers so long as you say them aloud. And after so much time spent with those prayers answered, you can't help but wonder what you did to fall from grace."

Her jaw clenches, teeth grinding as her eyes harden. He backtracks.

"I'm not saying this to pry. I just want you to know that you haven't done anything wrong. If She's not talking to you, then She's answering something you didn't know to ask for."

"What I want to ask for is backup," Shaw mutters, not allowing the tremble she feels in her fingers to reach her voice. She feels stripped to the bone-- completely exposed. She replays the last conversation she had with the Machine, and it mixes into Root's phone call until each syllable is nothing more than an incoherent blur. She snaps open the phone once more, punching in a number she hadn't thought about in nearly two years.

It rings.

"Who's this?"

"An old friend."

Silence.

"...Shaw?"

Shaw smiles, but it's grim.

"Hi, Harper."

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little bit of a long one, sorry about that! I’m going to try to work on part four as soon as possible, but it might be another day or too. In the mean time, thank you guys again so much for reading the series! I’m absolutely loving all of your comments-- they warm my little heart! Hope you’re all doing well (:


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